How the West Was Won (1963) (21 page)

They're railroaders. I thought somebody on the railroad might be interested. I am the railroad, King replied, and I am not interested! You should have buried them where you found them and tracked down the Indians who did it. Like you said, Mr. King-Jethro's eyes were cool-I was hired to hunt. I wasn't hired to dig graves or fight Indians. Anyway-he indicated the workmen-they're mostly old soldiers. I wouldn't expect a couple of dead men to bother em much. I don't want anything in their thick skulls but work-you understand? Now you get rid of those bodies and start tracking down those Indians while I telegraph the army.

Abruptly, King turned away.

Jethro Stuart had not moved. Lazily, he took out a plug of tobacco and bit off a small fragment. You keep forgettin', Mr. King, my job's to hunt game. King wheeled in his tracks. Your job was to hunt. Go to the paymaster and draw your time.

Unconcerned, Jethro turned his back on King and began to unfasten the lashings on the bodies. Be interested to know, Mr. King-who's going to hunt your meat? You?

The contempt in Stuart's voice infuriated King, but his anger was stifled by the realization that he could not, for the time being, replace Jethro. Without the hunter, there would be no fresh meat for the laborers; and without meat, he would soon have no crew. His anger, his feelings about Jethro, these meant nothing when in the balance against the progress of the railroad. All right! He waved an impatient hand. Forget what I said. But I want you to bring in buffalo meat, not dead men!

Turning away, he said to his secretary, Make a note to replace that man at the first opportunity.

Behind him something thumped upon the ground and, glancing back, King saw Stuart had dumped the two bodies right where he stood. Anger flooded him again and he started to shout, then clamped his lips, staring after Stuart, his fury bitter in his mouth. Behind him the spikers swung their sledges in a steady rhythm ... it had a lovely sound. Slowly, his hot burst of rage subsided.

Mr. King, his secretary said, those bodies-? Leave em for the army. If they won't protect us, they can at least bury the dead.

They called it the End of the Track, and the name was about as accurate as could be. Only one might have been better-the End of the Line, and for many that was what it was.

Tonight it was here; last night it had been thirty miles away. Tomorrow night would be the last on this site, and then it would move along. If they were lucky they might spend a week in one spot ... such times were rare with Mike King on the job. At the End of the Track there was but one law-the Railroad. And at the End of the Track, or anywhere along the six hundred miles of steel, Mike King was the Railroad.

It was a town that moved with the track, and could be taken down in less than an hour-a town without roots, populated by men without roots, and by women-with one exception-of just one kind.

A dozen large tents and fifty small ones-that was the town at the End of the Track, and nowhere in so small a space had there ever been concentrated so large a percentage of vice. You could choose your game, and your brand of whiskey. You bought rot-gut whiskey if you didn't care. If you did care, there was good whiskey; there was even champagne and expensive wine. You could choose your kind of woman. All nationalities and colors were there, schooled in every sin, and prepared to invent a few new ones at the customer's discretion. It was rough, bawdy, brutal.

The bulk of the men who inhabited the tent city by night were the track-layers, spikers, tie-cutters, and teamsters who were building the road. But there were also the men and women who traveled to entertain and serve them. The tracklayers and those who went before them were making money, and they wanted to spend it. Mike King favored the spending, because a man who was broke was a man who had to stay on the job. Labor at the End of the Track was difficult to get, and many a laborer hesitated to risk the Indians who lurked just beyond the hills. Scattered among the inhabitants of the tent city was a liberal sprinkling of blue, for the railroad would not and could not advance even a step without protection from the army. And Lieutenant Zeb Rawlings was in command. Zeb Rawlings came out of his tent into the night and stood there with the cool wind on his face. He removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair, and when he looked around, he looked at the hills.

He had never thought of returning East, although he continued a sporadic correspondence with Jeremiah, who was prospering on the farm. He knew, as Jeremiah had known, that the West was for him. Here he belonged, and nowhere else.

He looked at the hills, and knew that the Indians were out there and, night or day, they were watching. How long they would be content to watch, he did not know, except that it would not be forever. A time would come, and then it would be up to him and his blue-coated soldiers.

That he would be outnumbered he took for granted. Three years of Indian fighting had taught him he could handle numbers if he could avoid surprise. Those three years had served to impress him anew with what he had learned long ago from the tales of his father-that as a fighting man the Indian was rarely equaled. He walked slowly along the street toward the gambling tents, listening to the music with only a small part of his attention. The three frontier years had left a mark upon him that was deeper than the burns of sun and wind. He had grown increasingly sparing of words, increasingly watchful. Long since, he had learned to listen with part of his mind for the night around him, to hear the slightest sound. He would never be as good at that as Linus had been, for Linus had lived longer in Indian country, and knew it better.

He entered the tent and made his way up to the bar. The tables were crowded with gamblers and spectators, and the bar was lined with men. Just as he walked up, a man stepped away and there was a place for him. The music changed to a fanfare and a girl came on in spangles and a red dress. Zeb Rawlings watched her without interest. She had been pretty when she first reached the End of the Track, but that had been at least five hundred miles ago. She started singing A Railroader's Bride I'll Be, and Mike King came up to the bar beside Zeb. Men moved aside for him respectfully, but warily, too. See those two men they killed today? King asked.

We buried them.

What about the Arapahoes?

We tracked your men, and we found the Arapahoes, too, but the tracks didn't lead to them. It was a war party of Cheyennes down from the north who killed your men.

The hell it was! What about those two last week? Arapahoes killed them. Your men were drunk and chasing squaws. What would you do if some of those drunks started chasing your wife? I haven't got a wife. He watched the girl in red without much interest. Mike King already knew all there was to know about her. Anyway, your job is to fight Indians, not agree with em.

There were two hundred Arapahoes, and I had twenty men-it seemed a good time to listen. Anyway, I'm not starting a war just to please you. I think I'll wire your colonel, King said irritably. He may have different ideas as to who you're out here to please.

Without taking his eyes from the singing girl, Zeb reached into his pocket and handed a wire to King. I reported to him, Zeb said shortly, and as you will see, my actions pleased him. If you're in your right mind the last thing you'll want is Indian trouble. Start a war with the Arapahoes now and the Kiowa, Cheyenne, and Sioux will all join in.

Zeb leaned his elbows on the bar and accepted a whiskey from King to chase the milk he had been drinking. He should be sleeping off his weariness, for he was tired, dead-tired. Burying those men today had hit him hard. He had merely glanced at them, but their faces stuck in his mind. Especially one of them ... reminded him of ma.

In his inside coat pocket was another letter from Jeremiah. He had bought another quarter section, and the letter ended: Remember,. half of everything is yours if you want to come back. Ruth and the youngsters send you their best. Jeremiah had married and had two children already.

Zeb stared at the dancing girl. I want to see the varmint, he said aloud. What was that? King asked. Oh? You mean her? You're right ... a varmint. All wildcat.

King turned, resting an elbow on the bar so he could face Zeb. Did you know I'd been seeing Julie lately?

She told me. This is still a free country.

You're right.

King grinned at him. If you think those brass buttons are enough, you're wrong.

I make more in a month than you do in a year.

If you're building up to something, let's have it. You could be making more, King suggested mildly. I wouldn't want to offer unfair competition. Take those men of mine-they were killed no more than a mile off the right-of-way. I want my men safe ten miles off the right-of-way. They're bound to drink and they will chase squaws, but I want em safe. My orders are to keep the peace. That's why I am here, and for no other reason.

Orders are a piece of paper, King replied impatiently. You're here to help us build this railroad. The government wants it, the people want it. And you want it.

That's right. I do want it. King put down his glass. And you're going to help me get it.

When King had left, Zeb Rawlings leaned on the bar and watched the dancers without really seeing them, nor was it the dancers of whom he was thinking. For the first time he was seriously considering a life that had nothing to do with the Army. He knew what pressure Mike King could bring to bear, and he knew that within a few days he would be hearing from his colonel, just as his colonel would have heard from the general.

The general was up for retirement and was already smoothing his way for a job in civilian life. His retirement pay would not provide adequately for the general and his family. A job with the railroad, in an executive position, would do all of that. Zeb Rawlings knew a little of this, and guessed more. Mike King used money and influence the way he used everything else to attain his ends, and without any thought of the morality involved, or the lack of it. Zeb Rawlings had the clarity of vision of a man who had lived on the frontier and dealt with simple things. His mind was not confused with too many issues, and long ago he had sacrificed personal interest for the good of the service whenever that was required. But an agreement had been made with the Arapahoes, and if an effort was made to push them back they would fight, and that meant that innocent people having no connection with the railroad would die. Jethro Stuart moved up to the bar beside him and accepted the glass and the bottle the bartender placed before him.

He turned toward Zeb, his position almost identical to that taken by King earlier. Your name is Rawlings and you're from Ohio. Pa's name wouldn't be Linus, would it? Zeb, curiously, looked at him. It would. Knew him. He thrust out a hand. You've been seeing Julie. If you're anything like Linus, I'm glad you're seeing her.

I've heard pa speak of you. It was odd that until now he had not connected the names. He used to talk of you often.

Used to?

He was killed at Shiloh.

Jethro filled Zeb's glass and his own. Better'n dyin' behind a plow, and if I knew Linus he'd have wanted it thataway. I tried a plow once ... most of a year. Took ten years off my life.

Jethro turned his glass in his hand. You buried those men I brought in.

Yes.

Good men ... surveyors. Had a right to be where they were. Cheyennes done it.

You knew that?

I can read sign. He emptied his glass. King will try to turn it into an excuse. Hates Indians.

Zeb Rawlings was surprised. Hates Indians? Why? They're in the way. They're no good to Mike King or his like. They belong to a way of life that King resents because it ain't his way. There's a kind of man who hates anything unlike himself and what he understands, and just seeing the Indians out there doing nothing that he can see, it bothers him.

I never thought of it that way.

King will be a big man in the country some day, but there ain't much to him. Reminds me of beaver. You put a beaver where there's water and he'll make a dam because it's his nature to make dams. Take him away from water and he's good for nothing. Same thing with Mike King. He can get things done and he will make money, and he will die never knowing there was anything else in the world. That's one reason he resents those Indians out there. Most ways they have it better than he does. Jethro turned away. You drop by my place whenever you're of a mind to. Like to see you.

Zeb finished his whiskey and put down his glass. No question about it-he was tired. He walked from the tent, pausing for a moment in the open air, far removed from the tin-panny music and the rough talk within. He wished again that he might have returned before ma died. Ma would have liked Julie.

Chapter
15

The town at the end of the track had a way of becoming abruptly silent. Rarely did the music, the noise, and the confusion dwindle away. They were going full blast with all the stops out, until suddenly silence descended like a dropped blanket, and then nothing remained but the night sounds-the creak of a sign in the wind, the flap of an unbuttoned tent door, the scuffing of a foot, or the sound of a man murmuring in his sleep. In the distance a lone coyote cast his woes into the starlit sky, and still further away a locomotive whistled mournfully at the unreplying stars.

Julie wrapped her cloak against the wind. She should not be out, she knew that, but after staying in the tent all evening, she desperately wanted fresh air. Tonight when her father had come in, he glanced at her, saw she was waiting.